


To All Those Who Are Lost

by fadeoutslow



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:19:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeoutslow/pseuds/fadeoutslow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the first time to the last time. Fair warning: this is very angsty and ends unhappily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To All Those Who Are Lost

The first time, they're drunk. High on the fact that they're actual, real Formula 1 drivers, that they're _here_ , that they've made it this far. They're full of expectations, convinced that the only way is up, that their minor points places in the first couple of races are just the beginning, something to build on. 

That they're destined for great things, that everything is going to go their way.

At some moment, months from now, Jean-Eric will look back and wonder at their innocence, their naiveté.

But now, right now, they feel like they're going to conquer the world as they stagger back to Jean-Eric's room, collapse on the bed. Dan can't stop giggling, and Jean-Eric will swear afterwards that the only reason he rolls over and starts kissing Dan is simply to make him shut up.

That, of course, like so much that follows, will be a lie.

Still, he's mildly surprised when Dan starts kissing him back with no small amount of enthusiasm, tongue like something alive inside Jean-Eric's mouth, hands all over him, legs tangling together. 

There's a tiny part of his brain, the sober part, that wonders if he's taking advantage, but then, at some point, after some indeterminate amount of time, Dan crawls up on to his hands and knees, jeans and underwear pulled down his thighs, and Jean-Eric forgets what he was thinking, forgets pretty much everything.

He bends, kissing Dan's ass before spreading him wide, first tentative touches of his tongue making Dan squirm. "That tickles," he says, but it's not long before he's moaning. "Come on," he says. "Fuck me."

Jean-Eric gets up, rummages around in his luggage till he finds a condom and a nearly empty tube of slick, and Dan's ready for him, for his fingers, his cock, ready enough that it's obvious he's done this before. And Jean-Eric's known Dan a long time, but this is something he didn't know, and he can't help but wonder who Dan's been fucking, what other secrets he's keeping.

But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, not when his cock is in Dan's ass, one hand gripping Dan's hip, the other wrapped round his dick, jerking him in time with his thrusts.

This is going to be the best year of his life, he's sure. The very best.

-

In the morning, Dan's gone, and Jean-Eric doesn't see him again till the next race weekend.

They don't talk about it, but it's not weird or anything. It's okay. 

Everything's going to be okay.

-

The second time, Dan shows up at the door to Jean-Eric's hotel room after another disastrous race, eyes downcast, looking thoroughly miserable. And for _Dan_ to look so unhappy, well. Things have to be bad. And they are, they really are.

It's not as if either of them thought this was going to be easy, but they weren't expecting to not even have a chance, to be dead last among the mid-field teams, to barely be beating Caterhams and Marussias.

They sit on the end of Jean-Eric's bed for a while, talking about the car, the set-up, the tyres. They've already had an exhaustive debrief with the team and though they can speak honestly about the problems, are, in fact, encouraged to do so, it's really only here, alone with each other, that they can truly talk. 

There's no fear of saying the wrong thing, of being seen to be blaming anyone except themselves.

"It sucks," Dan says, and Jean-Eric nods. 

And then they're kissing, again, but this time there's no urgency to it, no hunger. The primary need here is for comfort, solace, and they take it slow, lingering touches that are strange yet familiar; almost unnervingly tender.

Afterwards, Jean-Eric's snugged up behind Dan, soothing warmth pressed along the length of his body. He kisses the back of Dan's neck, smiles as Dan huffs out a tired little laugh. "Do you want me to go?" Dan asks.

"No," Jean-Eric says. "I mean, if you want to, I don't mind."

"I think I'd like to stay," Dan says.

"Yeah," Jean-Eric says. "I'd like that too."

-

There are other times, after that. They fall into a kind of routine, neither of them discussing it, never talking about what it means. Jean-Eric tries to focus on the driving, on getting things right. He doesn't have time to think about whatever else is going on.

And it's not as if there _is_ anything going on, right? Nothing at all.

-

The second-to-last time, it's early one morning, and Jean-Eric's lying in bed, sheets tangled around his ankles, arms stretched above his head, watching. Dan's gathering up his clothes, bending over to pick up his shorts and then pulling them on. "What?" he says, grinning, looking almost shy.

"What what?" says Jean-Eric.

"You were smiling."

"Was I?"

"Yeah," Dan says. "You were."

"Oh. Well." Jean-Eric opens his legs a little wider, rubs his thigh, scratching at the dried come flaking at the edge of his pubic hair. "Maybe you should come back to bed."

And for a moment Dan seems tempted, but then he says, "Nah. Sorry, got stuff to do."

"Sure, yeah," Jean-Eric says, and the feeling of disappointment that wells up inside him borders on shocking, the intensity of it completely unexpected. He shifts, feeling awkward, exposed. "I'll see you later."

"Yep," Dan says, closing the door behind him, and Jean-Eric's supposed to be in the gym this morning, fitting in one more training session before his flight home, but instead, he stays in his room, doesn't even get out of bed.

This isn't good, he knows, this isn't how things were supposed to go, not the way things were meant to turn out. It's just sex, it's always been just sex, but, looking back, he can see it stopped being _just_ anything quite some time ago, and he can't understand why he never noticed, never saw what was happening.

But he didn't. And it can't go on, it can't. Dan's his teammate, his colleague, but he's also his number one rival, and Jean-Eric can't afford to have anything affect his chances of winning, of being competitive. Nothing can get in the way of that. Racing is the first priority, always. It has to be.

It has to. 

By the time he gets up, it's too late to have a shower and he nearly misses his flight.

-

The last time is just after they've been re-signed. The announcement should be a relief, but it's not as if they didn't know it was coming, and in some ways it's worse, almost, because this is it, time's running out, and 2013 will be their last chance. They both know perfectly well that there will probably be someone stepping in on Friday practices, are aware that it's extremely likely one of them will be unceremoniously replaced mid-season, but they can't think about that now.

"It's good," Dan says. "It's all good." But he doesn't sound convinced. "We just have to concentrate on these last few races."

Jean-Eric nods, then takes Dan's hand, holds it carefully in both of his own like it's something to be revered, something precious. And perhaps it is, perhaps all of this is, a thing made only more valuable by the fact it could only ever be transitory. "I don't think we should do this anymore," he says.

And Dan just smiles at him, sadly. "Yeah," he says, "I guess we shouldn't."

If this was a normal break-up, Jean-Eric might say _we can still be friends_ , but it's not, and no, they really can't. They can't even have that.

"Well," Dan says, standing up. "Best of luck." 

"Yeah," Jean-Eric says. "To you too."

Dan laughs, one final time. "I feel like we should shake hands or something."

"No, we don't need to do that."

"Maybe not." Dan looks at him. "Bye," he says.

"Goodbye," says Jean-Eric, and then Dan's gone, his absence in the room a clearly defined _space_ , like something tangible, a scooped-out hollow inside Jean-Eric's heart.

"It's good," he repeats to himself. "It's all good."


End file.
